


Fond Memories of Murderous Saints

by kristophine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Historical, Ineffable Wives, russian peasant dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: “You look good as a peasant,” said Crowley meditatively. “I know it’s a bore and it chafes, but it really does suit you.”Aziraphale glanced sharply at Crowley, but all she said was, “Thank you.”





	Fond Memories of Murderous Saints

“You look good as a peasant,” said Crowley meditatively. “I know it’s a bore and it chafes, but it really does suit you.”

Aziraphale glanced sharply at Crowley, but all she said was, “Thank you.”

It was true; Aziraphale, with her unruly cloud of dandelion-fluff hair tucked up into a scarf and her billowing skirts, grasped firmly to prevent them from dipping into the mud of the marketplace, looked downright fetching. Crowley, of course, was biased. She’d not gotten tired of Aziraphale’s face in, oh, five and a half millennia; it seemed unlikely she would just then. Besides, Aziraphale’s stout figure did wonderfully with a bit of firm lacing. Not _tight,_ she still breathed, it had gotten to be a habit, but firm. Gave her a bit of a bosom.

“I like the bosom,” Crowley added helpfully.

Aziraphale heaved a deep sigh. “Leave it to you to make it about the bosom.”

“What are you on about? I’m not bosom-obsessed!”

“Perhaps not, but you do have a habit of _staring_ whenever they’re on display.”

“Well!” protested Crowley, despite the dawning realization that Aziraphale was correct. “Come on, now, these societies nowadays are _very_ repressive. Remember Crete?”

“Oh,” sighed Aziraphale, momentarily distracted. “_Crete._ Marvelous cooks.”

“I rather liked the bull-leaping, myself.”

“Too much goring.”

“Not _enough_ goring.”

Aziraphale pursed her lips disapprovingly and shot Crowley another glance. “At any rate, the festivities are going to start soon and I need to be over with the other women.”

“You could stay with me and watch them.”

“Hardly.” Aziraphale dropped a sarcastically deep courtesy. “After all, I am but a humble maid.”

“Grand Princesses need servants too! Come on, this is going to be a dead bore and you know it.”

“Spoken like someone who fails to properly appreciate the arts.” With a sniff, Aziraphale headed off to join the humans.

Crowley fiddled with a loose pearl sewn to her letnik for a moment while she settled down to watch. The peasants were doing a bit of a dance, which would have been a bit awkward for Aziraphale to join, what with never quite having learned the trick of it—Crowley had seen Aziraphale contemplate it more than once, and might have done her fair share of tempting—but this dance was rather different than most of them. It seemed to involve very fast walking with very tiny steps under their skirts, and made the women look like they were floating, like fascinating little ducks on a lake from Crowley’s vantage point (an underwhelming throne next to her rather baffled companion, who wasn’t quite sure how he had acquired a Grand Princess to shepherd around, even if she _did_ claim to be his great-aunt on his mother’s side).

To Crowley’s amazement, and _immense_ delight, Aziraphale _did_ join them. It was only after a few minutes of eagle-eyed observation that Crowley concluded Aziraphale was _using a miracle_ to float rather than using her feet, which was a terrible disappointment.

After the dancing, at the feast where Crowley had a few temptations to put into action (and very pointedly did _not_ ask Aziraphale about the fresh-faced young local religious type whose face fairly gleamed with Heavenly favor), she took a swig of the local vodka from a very fine cup and asked, “Are you planning on taking up dancing?”

“Oh! Oh, my, no. I just thought it would be… expedient, to join them for a turn.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you know, this all quite reminds me of the Olga situation,” said Aziraphale, looking about the court. “Different coats, same minds.”

“I’d forgotten about Olga!” said Crowley, delighted. “That bit with the boat was rather genius, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale huffed heavily, though the effect was marred by the enormous hunk of pork she was holding. “I admit the Drevlians made a tactical error in murdering her husband, but burying them alive _still_ feels like a bit of an overreaction.”

“I’d bury a boatload of people alive if they harmed a hair on your head,” said Crowley, without quite thinking it through; the vodka was a bit strong that season. Good potatoes that year. “I didn’t even have to suggest it to her. I just mentioned perhaps they needed a bit of a lesson and she had her people out digging the trench in a wink.”

Aziraphale made a quiet, strangled noise, and Crowley glanced over at her through her dark crystal glasses.

“You would, would you,” said Aziraphale after a moment’s apparent choking on her pork. It wasn’t entirely a question.

“Naturally.” Crowley slouched further back in her chair, the heavily embroidered velvet refusing to conform to her until she gave it a sharp thought.

“I see.”

Aziraphale reached out, took Crowley’s cup—no one paid them any attention, because they did not wish to be paid attention _to_—and took a long, healthy drink of the vodka, and then gave it back and settled back in her chair. Her cheeks were a hectic pink.

“To your health,” she added, belatedly.

Crowley smiled at her; she glanced over long enough to smile back, and it was rueful and sweet at the same time.

“To another five thousand years.” Crowley saluted her with the cup, and drank. “And that bosom.”

Aziraphale burst into laughter like the ringing of bells.


End file.
